Who's to Blame?
I call you,
Because I am supposed to.
That's what daughters do.
You
Don't call me ... because
That's what fathers do?
But why?
Is it -- I have to guess --
You have something to prove, a point
To make?
Or maybe my long silences
Prove something to you.
I do as I was taught.
It isn't like
I might pray to you --
My father --
Like you pray to yours,
Regularly and
At your convenience.
Or maybe it is ...
Since the conversations are always
So one-sided.
Not that your rare calls are
Any less torturous than
The random ones I make.
Not that
The subjects stilt any less or
The pauses seem any less
Empty.
I do as I was taught.
After I outgrew the
Toddler clothes
And the braces,
After I moved past
The child's needs at Maslow's base,
I was not that interesting for you.
Your best fan
Found another center, another
Focus -- herself --
And that really killed it
For you,
Didn't it.
And then I
Failed over and over ...
Failed at caring for myself,
Failed at producing tricycle motors,
Failed at marrying a
Carbon copy
Of you.
Failed at
Staying close and
Compliant.
And now I
Shrug off the family obligations,
Just like I watched
You do it
chip off the old block.
Isn't imitation the best flattery?
But that does not
Please you.
Nothing ever
Pleased you. It has been a
Constant guessing game
On what would win your day.
Parents don't explain the rules, they
Teach the original lesson of
"Read my mind."
I try to read yours now, and it seems
I find careful silences and
Gaping detachment.
Just like god did it
chip off the old block.
I grow
Tired of the game. I am only
The occasional
Obligatory daughter,
Which is all I have ever really been,
In the image of my obligatory
Father.
Which is all you have ever really been.
Let us pray.
And so I call
Because I am supposed to.
Not because I want to.
Not because you know anything about my life
Or because I know
Yours.
Not because we will actually talk,
But because we are supposed to,
Like we were taught.